


A Series of Negotiations Held between the Sun and the Moon

by muurmuur



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Almyra (Fire Emblem), Alternate Universe - Vampire, Azure Moon Route, Blood Drinking, In which all Almyrans are vampires, M/M, Pining, Pre-Timeskip to Post-War, Sexual Content, Vampire/Feeder Power Dynamics, and Lorenz is still Lorenz, the people of Fodlan are human
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:15:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27270289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muurmuur/pseuds/muurmuur
Summary: He might not have been a blasted Riegan but, Goddess help him, Lorenz was determined to win the Roundtable. It wasn’t like he hadn’t earned it. The Alliance’s finest tutors had long prepared him for leadership. At eighteen, Lorenz was a master of bureaucracy. He knew his motherland’s trade routes better than the lines on his own palm.Most importantly, Lorenz was an expert on Leicester’s most tricky neighbor: Almyra, the Kingdom of the Moon. Who better than him to address the nation’s eccentricities? Their fear of silver, and of the sun— mirrors and, rumor had it, garlic? Once he was finally named sovereign, Lorenz would find the secret to properly wrangling them.First, of course, would come his graduation from the Officer’s Academy.Unrelatedly: news that Garreg Mach’s barnyard was being poached entirely clean of its chickens. Riegan was acting strange. A late night found blood on his dormitory door that even he, with his silver tongue and cunning green eyes, couldn’t convincingly explain. Lorenz supposed that he could settle this small dispute as well, but only if wasn’t too much trouble.
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	A Series of Negotiations Held between the Sun and the Moon

Lorenz was on his way to his quarters after a late night spent in the library when he saw it. Lesser men might have been frightened by the long shadows cast along the dark corridor. Perhaps they would have found the dormitory’s chill unnerving. Not him, of course, for he was a Gloucester, and Gloucester men were made from marble. They were elegant and stately, his father so often said, and yet unshaken, even by the sands of time. That sort of patience was key to Lorenz’s own lofty aspirations, although he had to admit that his tolerance was starting to grow somewhat thin. Just how long could one man wait before he took hold of his own destiny?

“Gracious!” he yelped when he turned the corner into the dormitory’s second story. Once he had his wits about him, he took a moment to appreciate the fact that he was alone. Surely there was nothing statuesque about his current position, pressed tight against the wall as he was, hand clapped to his chest to keep his heart from leaping through his jacket. He swallowed and fought the urge to smooth down his hair as he eyed the offending splatter that had brought about the whole ordeal.

 _Wine_ , he considered first. Although he’d never partake in such behavior himself, it did not seem unlikely that some of his rougher shod peers would smuggle drink into their rooms. Caspar, perhaps. Claude, most certainly. Lorenz frowned at the idea. The Alliance was abuzz with excitement over the Riegan heir, but he’d observed nothing extraordinary about him, other than his aim. Even that was nothing more than simple muscle memory. Give a dog a bow and enough time, and surely he’d win himself a few bullseyes, too.

Lorenz crept forward to follow the drips glistening against the floorboards. He was not shocked to pass by Caspar’s door undisturbed. The splatters remained: some drops, some stringy splashes, and finally a smear caught underfoot. Lorenz’s stomach tightened. He’d never seen a vintage of wine that appeared so... thick. If it wasn’t such an absurd idea, he’d even think that it was...

“Blood,” he whispered, shocked, gaze settling on an unmistakable thumbprint pressed against the wood of Claude’s dormitory door. Lorenz froze. Claude was an arrogant, crude-humored fool utterly unfit for the future that everyone seemed all but willing to hand him. But he was still a Riegan, and that made him a man of the Alliance. If something had happened to him— if he was hurt or worse, attacked—why, it was Lorenz’s duty to protect him.

Moreover, it didn’t seem such an unimaginable development. Surely there were some among Leicester’s rank and file who found Claude’s recent recognition as heir convenient, if not entirely contrived. That sort of rumor was dangerous. Lorenz had pulled him aside on more than one occasion to discuss it with him, of course, but Claude had always waved off his concern with his usual lackadaisical fancy, which was just another reason why it was madness that he be considered for a future on the Roundtable at all.

Lorenz gritted his jaw and squared his shoulders against the door. Something rustled inside. Footsteps. He felt his blood turn to ice water as he prepared a list of spells to cast. Be brave, he coached himself, imagined in his father’s voice. For some frustrating reason his mind lingered on Claude instead: that insufferable grin of his, the nimble way he held his quill. Lorenz decided to exchange a staggering spell with something more thankless. If a ne’er do well had truly snuck their way into Garreg Mach and _hurt_ _him_ , why—

The door swung open with a sudden push of air. A pair of cold, green eyes petrified Lorenz in place. _Death_ , a voice inside him cried out, primitive and jarring; _run_ , another yelled, spurring his heartbeat like a jackrabbit.

“Claude?” his mouth somehow supplied, voice pitched unbecomingly. The strange mask cast over his classmate’s face fell away in an instant. It was replaced by befuddlement.

“ _Lorenz?_ ” Claude relaxed, sinking into his standard cocked-stance pose. “What are you doing out there?” His voice dipped with feigned shock. “Don’t tell me that you’ve been visiting with someone?”

“Nonsense,” Lorenz sputtered. He took a breath to collect himself. “I was at study and have just returned, if you must know. As House Leader, I would have expected to have found you doing the same. And yet of course I was alone at the task, and so would ask you the same of what you have so crudely demanded of me!”

Claude grinned. “I was asleep, Lorenz.” He gestured at his simple sleep-shirt before nudging his door further open to reveal his decidedly empty, if poorly kept, room. Lorenz felt his mouth grow dry. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Yes. So it is.” Lorenz smoothed a hand over the front of his jacket. “And it appears that you are well and in one piece, so to speak.” 

Claude patted his arms. “Seems so,” he offered glibly. Goddess, but he was so _intolerable_.

“Most certainly by luck alone,” Lorenz chided him. “If you were to keep your wits about you, Claude, perhaps you would have been aware that there is _blood_ on your doorstep.”

“What?” Claude stepped forward, brows raised, peeking around Lorenz’s shoulder to take stock of what he’d said. He felt like a furnace, suddenly too close, without even the pretense of decorum: barefoot, hair untidy. He may as well have been in the nude, for of course he wore no dressing gown, despite the thin fabric of his attire. Preposterous.

Lorenz cleared his throat. He gestured lamely at the red thumbprint.

“Ah,” Claude noted sagely. “Nosebleed.”

“Excuse me?”

“I had a nosebleed. The cold always does it to me.”

Lorenz’s lip curled. “And you did not deign to _clean it up?_ ”

Claude laughed and rubbed at the back of his head. “Sorry about that. I must have missed some. I’ll take care of it, Lorenz.”

“I would most certainly hope so,” Lorenz huffed. “As if enough has not come to pass in this unlucky year without our classmates being cast under the impression that there is some new murderer stalking the halls. If I may, Claude, it would do you well to look outside your own self interest from time to time.”

“Duly noted.”

“Very good.” It was not good, of course, but Lorenz had come to know Claude well enough to understand that he would find no small amount of amusement in any further guidance. Not that he was not in dire need of such a thing. Goddess. Who had raised him? Was the Lady Tiana truly as wild-natured as she’d been rumored, to have reared such an unruly son? “If you do not mean to bleed on anything else, Lord Riegan, then I shall wish you goodnight.”

“‘Night, Lorenz,” Claude called after him as he wheeled stiffly backwards into the hall. “Sleep well!”

As it so happened, Lorenz did not sleep well. If he were a petty man, which he wasn’t, he would have at least found some satisfaction in not doing as Claude commanded.

* * *

To add insult to injury, Lorenz woke to find himself assigned to stable duty the morning after his late night rendezvous with Claude. It was only by the fortunes of a well applied cool compress at dawn that he did not frighten the horses with dark circles under his eyes. At least they were willing to suffer his ill-tempered sulking in peace. No doubt Riegan would needle him for it. He could imagine it as clearly as if the man were in the stables with him in the flesh. _Sweet dreams?_ he'd ask, surely, emerald eyes half-lidded, his lips cocked into a grin. As if anything could be sweet while Lorenz lived in a world where Riegan supremacy still had potential. Claude’s cursed nose bleeds would be the least of their worries if he were to preside over the Roundtable, even if he made a mess of it just like he had the hallway.

“Goddess help us, not another one,” a voice groaned from beyond the stable doors. Lorenz was startled awake from his daydreaming and noticed, a bit too late, that he was gripping his rake so tightly that he’d started to shake. He loosened his fingers and focused on not listening in on the conversation unraveling outside.

It wasn’t proper. If it had been his classmates, perhaps the gossip would have been a means by which he could keep tabs on diplomatic matters, but the voice currently lamenting some sort of debacle no doubt belonged to a member of the monastery staff. There was nothing noble about worrying himself over their humble affairs.

“Wolves?”

“ _Wolves?_ Gettin’ in the walls? What, have you seen a wolf with wings?”

Well, it was an interesting inquiry. Lorenz had to give them that. He shifted a few steps closer to the door.

“Coyotes, then.”

“That’s your counter argument? Have you ever seen a coyote?”

“Naw, but _somethin’s_ eating them! That’s nearly ten of ‘em this month!”

“Aye, but it’s nothing four-legged, you nimwit!”

“Thieves, you think?”

“Must be. No blood.”

“What’s a thief got to do with so many chickens?”

“That isn’t the strangest part,” the first voice promised. “Worst thief I’ve ever heard of. Been leaving gold behind.”

“What? For the chickens?”

“No, for the wolves, genius.”

“He’s buyin’ ‘em?”

“And overpayin’.”

“Suppose we should get more chickens, then.”

“Aye, but we get the chickens from the eggs the bleedin’ chickens lay, so it’s a conundrum, innit?”

“Ahh,” the second voice agreed. “So you’re sayin’ we should buy more eggs?”

“You sure you weren’t hatched from no egg?” the first voice cried out, growing fainter as the duo began to trail away.

“Can’t be certain, I suppose. I wasn’t there.”

“Neither was your mother, from the sound of it.”

A nearby mare nickered. Lorenz felt himself flush. Yes, quite. It wasn’t polite to listen.

* * *

Claude had something to do with the chickens. 

Lorenz wasn’t certain what that something was, exactly, and hardly why. There was no good reason for it. At best he could call it a hunch, but somehow, in the deepest parts of himself, he was convinced that no other man or woman in the monastery could possibly be responsible. Of course, he could not simply accuse Riegan outright, primarily because he did not have the faintest clue of how to word his condemnation. Surely the future duke was not a _chicken thief_.

And yet.

Lorenz did what any reasonable man would do in such a situation: he buried himself in a large pile of hay next to the chicken coop and laid in wait to catch Claude red handed. It was an extreme measure, but one which Lorenz, as a nobleman, was nonetheless obligated to carry out. Garreg Mach was a religious institution, after all, and its staff a humble people. Whatever Claude was up to— be it some strange prank or something far more nefarious—it was also larceny, and of an undeserving victim, no less. Such information needed to be reported to Duke Riegan posthaste. Perhaps this was exactly the sort of step Lorenz needed to take to shore up his own aspirations for the sovereign’s position. At the very least he would prove that the man’s grandson was mad; at worst, a criminal.

Night one of his surveillance proved to be a failure. Lorenz limped back to his quarters with a bruised ego, empty hands, and a mild case of hay fever. Night two was much the same. By the third he was prepared to admit that he was, perhaps, somewhat mad himself. He’d nearly cut his reconnaissance short for the final time when the faintest smudge of a shadow parted from the nearby stables.

Lorenz froze. A strand of hay tickled at his nose. He suffered it in silence. The shadow smoothly slinked closer to the coop. The chickens slept on, perched without a care like pillows along a bench. The gate into the coop creaked open. Lorenz could feel the hinges swinging in his chest. He leaned forward on his knees. The bale rustled around him. There was a distant peep, followed after by the annoyed cluck of a disturbed fowl. A rush of triumph spilled over Lorenz. _Caught in the act._

He leapt to his feet, spilling hay across the plaza as he tracked where the shadow had gone. It was quick. So was Lorenz, thanks to no lack of physical training. He darted forward in the thief’s wake, careful to take long, loping strides to keep his boots as quiet as possible against the cobbles. The monastery grew darker. Their path was leading them away from the better-traveled sections. Lorenz weaved expertly between columns and hedges, keeping just the perfect distance so that the rogue did not realize too early that he’d been caught.

They came upon an old, ruined section in the walls. Lorenz’s heart beat faster. Was this some sort of conspiracy? Was Claude selling monastery chickens to undeserving bandits hidden in the outside wood— men perhaps so wicked that they could not show their faces in fairer markets? Yes, this would be the end to him, surely: all of his taunts, his foolish jokes. Lorenz would be sure to be gracious when his crimes came to light. Better for Duke Riegan, so often ill of health, to not be too startled by the truth of his unfortunate progeny.

Lorenz stumbled on a root. His arms windmilled, keeping him precariously upright. It was dreadfully dark. It would be an end to his ruse, but fire light seemed inevitable. He willed a small pinch of it to life in his palms. The magicked flame cast a ruddy glow into the clearing. It seemed empty, but Lorenz knew better. Claude must have been close. His dastardly compatriots, too. Lorenz built his fire a little higher. He may not have brought his lance with him, but he was serviceable enough in magic to hold his own. A proud bluster filled his chest. Yes. This was it. This was the very will of the dukedom that he would surely one day hold. _Justice._

He turned towards a cluster of ancient oaks just as the stolen chicken made a dreadful, dying sound. Startled, Lorenz overfilled his hand with flame. The magic spilled into a bold flash. The shadow, knelt at the trunk of one of the oaks, stood sharply. His hood fell back with the move. Lorenz was not surprised to see Claude’s green eyes, nor the golden glint of the ring strung through his ear. He would have felt victorious, even, if not for the unexpected parts: the chicken, very much now dead, strewn limply at Claude’s feet. The irreconcilable truth of the fact that Claude was, in fact, alone. The blood, fresh, so dark that it was nearly black, dribbling down his chin.

“B-blood magic?” Lorenz babbled.

“Lorenz?” Claude smeared his sleeve against his mouth— too late, of course, Lorenz had seen it, whatever _it_ was— and shielded his eyes from the crackling flame still leaping from Lorenz’s palm. “What the hell are you doing? Put that away!”

“What devilry is this, Claude?”

Claude stepped a foot closer in lieu of a reply. Lorenz matched his step with one sent backwards, still fisting a white-hot ball of flame.

“What are you going to do, set me on fire?” Claude insisted, snarling. “There’s enough kindling here to do us both in. Calm down.”

“I will do no such thing until you tell me precisely what you are doing here, outside the walls, alone, in the middle of the night, in the dark, with that poor creature!”

“I could ask the same of you!”

“None of your schemes. Only the truth or so help me, I shall be forced to win it from you.”

“Fine!” Claude waved his palms at him in defeat. “But let’s build a proper fire, first. You’re blinding me.”

Lorenz supposed he had a point. He’d exhaust himself if he kept an inferno burning for too terribly long. “So be it. I’ll trust you to build it well,” he ordered, nodding his chin at Claude. Claude glowered but obeyed, marching stiffly to snatch an armful of brittle branches from the forest floor. Lorenz watched him with a careful eye until he’d built a passable foundation for a campfire. Only then did he let the fire spill from his fingers onto the branches, which cracked and popped as they quickly set alight.

To his credit, Claude did not run. Lorenz supposed it had something to do with having been caught so handily.

“And so,” Lorenz began anew, sucking in a deep breath for courage, “what, exactly, is that?” He gestured at the pitiful pile of white feathers left abandoned at the base of the nearby oak. Claude crossed his arms and huffed.

“It was my dinner,” he answered morosely. “But now it’s just a waste of sixteen coin.”

“You’ve been stealing the monastery chickens?”

“It’s not _stealing_ ,” Claude countered. “I’ve paid for them. Twice as much as they sell at market, and even then I...it doesn’t matter.” His brow furrowed. “I’ve not stolen them.”

“And is Garreg Mach aware of this arrangement of yours?”

“Are you going to tell the Archbishop that I’ve been overpaying for my meals?”

Lorenz opened his mouth only to snap it shut again. Of course he wouldn’t tell Archbishop Rhea. That was never part of the plan. But he wasn’t quite certain what he’d tell Duke Riegan either, to be honest, if Claude was already so forthcoming himself.

“Why not simply eat what is prepared at the dining hall?” he attempted slowly, mind spinning as he tried to keep pace. “They served a perfectly adequate roulade this very afternoon.”

Claude pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lorenz. Let’s be frank with one another, shall we? What’s the point in asking a question if you already know the answer?”

“I am afraid I do not follow,” Lorenz contended. “Obviously I am quite perplexed by whatever it is you are doing here, but no matter what it is, you will be in quite the position to convince me that it is no foul deed.”

Claude smirked. “Was that a play on words?”

Lorenz felt his cheeks darken. “I— this is no _folly_. Do you take me to be a simple jester?”

“You do have hay in your collar,” Claude offered dryly. Lorenz reached for the offending article despite himself. His chest fell slightly as he felt the offending bristle lodged exactly as Claude had described.

“You are changing the subject.”

“If you’re so clever,” Claude drawled, “then you must know what this is.”

“Do enlighten me.”

Claude groaned. He combed his fingers through his hair, staring upwards into the canopy with the shake of his head. “I can’t believe it. The others, maybe, I understand, but you’re from Leicester, aren’t you?”

A bracing jolt raced down Lorenz’s spine. “I was under the impression that you are as well, _Lord Riegan_.”

“And Hilda,” Claude continued, undeterred, his voice rising. It seemed as though Lorenz had unwittingly hit a nerve, although of what, exactly, he hadn’t the foggiest idea. “She doesn’t care much about anything, so maybe it simply doesn’t interest her, somehow. Not that _that_ explains _Holst_. But you? You want the Roundtable, don’t you?”

“I,” Lorenz choked, “I perhaps will— if there is an opportunity, upon our graduation, and of course after the position is— that is to say, goddess willing, that your grandfather the Duke lives a long and prosperous life—”

“And Cyril!” Claude interjected, tossing his hands into the air.

Lorenz was now fully dumbfounded by their debate. “The night watchman?”

“More of a maid, really,” Claude grumbled. “There’s no explanation for _that_.”

Lorenz stiffened. “I realize that you and I may have come to a heated state, but that is not an invitation for baseless slander.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I am aware, of course, that young Cyril is Almyran, if that is your insinuation, but under my own observation I have found that his loyalty to Garreg Mach is clear.”

“But that’s just it!” Claude swung his hands with frustration. “He’s _Almyran_!”

“I am aware,” Lorenz repeated. A low feeling settled in his chest. When he’d imagined Claude to be mad, he hadn’t truly considered the reality of the matter. It was sad, really, to see him rant and rave. Unmoved by Lorenz’s pity, Claude ground his knuckles against his eyes.

“ _I’m_ Almyran!” 

Pins and needles prickled down Lorenz’s arms. “Almyran,” he echoed. “Impossible. Don’t be foolish. I have seen evidence of your Crest myself.”

“My Crest? What does that have to do with it?”

“The Riegan line is an old and esteemed Fodlani house. I do not disagree that you are one of its more eccentric fixtures,” Lorenz charged, earning himself a lopsided grin from Claude, “but you are nonetheless a member as much as your forefathers before you. Do you truly intend to convince me that the Riegans— nay, even the Blaiddyds from which they’ve come, the sons of Loog!— are in some manner _Almyran?_ ”

“My mother is a Riegan,” was all that Claude offered in reply. Lorenz felt himself deflate.

“Yes, that is precisely what I’ve said,” he sighed, kneading a gloved thumb against his temple. Claude was known for running in circles when he argued, but usually they were around his competitor, not simply for the sake of running. It was quickly becoming exhausting.

“And my father...” Claude said with the wave of his hand, as if to urge Lorenz to complete the sentence for him.

“I am afraid that I have not yet had the pleasure of your father’s acquaintance, Claude.”

Claude sputtered with frustration. It was such an undignified sound that Lorenz was distracted from the bare essentials of their debate to realize just what it was that Claude may have been— potentially, although it seemed utterly absurd, and impossible, even treasonous—contending.

“Finally!” Claude cried out as Lorenz’s face fell. “I feel like I’ve been going mad.”

“Madness,” Lorenz agreed. “Your father was...”

“ _Is_ ,” Claude corrected. “He’d not appreciate your calling him dead. As you can imagine, some find it a bit of a sensitive topic.”

Lorenz groped for a nearby tree and leaned against it, feeling lightheaded by the revelation. “But that is... is that possible?”

Claude cocked a brow. “What part of it? You’re not going to ask me about the specifics, are you?”

“I...well, I am not quite sure. Does...is Duke Riegan aware of your...condition?”

“It’s not consumption, Lorenz,” he drawled. “And yes, of course he is.”

Lorenz’s chest tightened with panic. “And he has still named you heir?”

“I wasn’t aware that my mother’s choice of husband disqualified me for the title.”

“I do not mean to question Lady Tiana’s prerogative,” Lorenz stammered, still in possession of his wits enough not to make such a preposterous claim, “but forgive me if I have some initial reservations to the idea that you would, in such a position, be... perhaps...”

Claude stepped forward. Braced against his tree as he was, Lorenz had nowhere to run. He really should have given more thought to bringing a lance along. What would his father say? Surely the count, by way of governesses and tutors, had provided some allegory at some point during his son’s life that taught the virtues of one’s being prepared for anything. 

“Perhaps what? Do you think I’m going to _eat_ you? Turn Derdriu into some sort of bloody banquet?”

“Of course not,” Lorenz puffed. His eyes moved of their own accord to the bloodied feathers scattered across the forest floor. Could Claude truly blame him if he was not so eager for a similar fate?

But that was nonsense, wasn’t it? He’d studied beside Claude for months. To be quiet honest, Lorenz had treated his observation of Claude’s mettle equally as seriously as the more traditional aspects of his academics. And yes, Claude was in possession of a number of unbecoming qualities, but none of them were cruel. Lorenz could even admit—although to a very limited audience sworn to secrecy— that he was an admirable House Leader. He had improved Ignatz’s archery skills a considerable degree through dedicated firsthand instruction; had tempered Leonie’s bravado in a manner which left her safer on the field; had lured Marianne into speaking, even, and that perhaps the most spectacular feat of all, and surely the greatest evidence of his empathy.

And, although Lorenz knew well enough not to be fooled by the superficial, Claude certainly did not look wicked. In that moment, if anything, he seemed a little tired. Did monsters have the capacity for fatigue? Could they feign that subtle look of betrayal that had, as soon as it’d lighted on Claude’s lips and darkened his eyes, made Lorenz feel as though something sharp had been slipped between his ribs?

“I can understand,” Lorenz attempted quietly, “why the Duke would prefer secrecy on the matter, if only out of the spirit of...protecting against diplomacy done in bad faith.”

Claude frowned. He eased a step away from Lorenz, crossing his arms again. “We discussed it,” he admitted. “The possibility of keeping it a secret, and the risks if we didn’t. In the end he decided to simply not address it. I thought it was wishful thinking, but then I came here and... Honestly, it’s a little frightening, that people will believe whatever you say, as long as you’ve got a Crest and a fancy name.”

“Some would call that _honor_ ,” Lorenz argued, wounded. Claude snorted and shook his head. He peeled away to take a cross-legged seat at the campfire. Lorenz lingered in his place. “...And so,” Lorenz continued, because he could hardly stand to have the mystery unsolved, and because he was certain that if it was not answered now it would be everlasting, “the chicken..?”

Claude groaned. “I can hardly return it now, can I? If you’re going to argue that I should lop off my hand for thieving, I’m afraid you won’t convince me.”

“You were drinking its blood,” Lorenz continued, ignoring Claude’s bluster as he finally pushed away from the oak to take a seat beside him from across the fire. “I imagine.”

“Yes.”

“Is that what you...” Lorenz waved a hand for inspiration. Regrettably, the dark of the night did little for his usual poetry. “A...preference of taste, perhaps?”

Claude fiddled with the hem of his sleeve. “Adaptation,” he corrected morosely. “The more I’ve come to learn about the Church, the more I’ve realized that my grandfather had the right idea of it. I’m not eager to become another Cyril under Rhea’s watchful eye. Not soon after we came here, I played a game of chess with Sylvain. I’m still getting letters from my grandfather’s court demanding an explanation as to why I’ve extended an invitation to House Gautier to do gods know what, and how I’ve ruined years of careful diplomacy with six other houses I’ve never even heard of.”

“House Gautier is a contentious lot,” Lorenz offered. Claude snorted, apparently finding no solace in the words.

“So that was off the table, too. If a game of chess is so outrageous, I imagine feeding off of a classmate would be tantamount to a declaration of war.” Lorenz felt his nape grow hot at the strangeness of the word _feed_ , although he wasn’t quite certain why. “And it’s not like I intend to terrorize the countryside. The poor people of this country can barely feed themselves.”

“ _Your_ country,” Lorenz reminded him. Claude shrugged it off.

“So...Chickens, is what I decided,” he finished with the sag of his shoulders.

“Is that suitable?”

For all of his endless hours spent learning how to dance along a conversation held with nearly ever sort of partner, Lorenz had never been given a lesson on discussing dinner with an Almyran. To be fair, he’d never really considered it beyond the basic understanding that he did not want to find himself on the wrong end. And yet, as a student of the Officer’s Academy, he’d started to discover the cruder nature of a proper education, too. An army won and lost its battles on its stomach, for example. Surely that was a law applied equally to both foot soldiers and commanders. 

“I don’t have many options, Lorenz.”

Lorenz shifted against his knees. “I see.” He brushed an errant brown leaf from his trousers. “Well, then. I must say that I am still not in agreement with your decision to take without asking, although I do understand the merit of your having paid for what you’ve taken.”

“How magnanimous.”

Lorenz frowned. “I suppose I also owe you an apology for not addressing this topic with you more tactfully.” A look of surprise bloomed across Claude’s face. Lorenz did his best not to notice how it made the warmth at his nape burn brighter still. “And I see now that it was...uncouth, to interrupt your... _dinner_. Although I feel as though we both require additional discussion regarding our steps ahead, I am quite open to the idea of leaving you to.. _it_... at this late hour, and reconvening when we are both better rested.”

“That’s very polite of you,” Claude replied, “but I’m afraid it’s all a bit of a wash, now.” He glanced glumly at the fallen bird.

“Forgive me, but I do not follow.”

“It needs to be fresh,” Claude explained.

“Ah.” _Gruesome_. The flush crowding Lorenz’s collar cooled slightly at the idea. “Don’t tell me that you intend to steal another?”

“No,” Claude sighed. He stood, brushing the tail of his cloak clean. “I think that’s enough petty theft for one night.”

“Is that wise?” Lorenz stood as well. “Surely I am no expert on the matter, but I cannot imagine that going hungry is in your best interest, Claude.”

“I’ll survive.”

Claude’s response was hardly convincing. He looked downright miserable, if Lorenz were to make a guess of it. It had been four days since he’d intercepted him at his bloodied door, and Lorenz knew without question that no poor chickens had met an untimely demise in the meantime. He couldn’t imagine what it felt like, to go hungry for so many days. His heart beat faster as an idea took shape in his mind.

“Claude,” he began tightly, “I know that we do not often see eye to eye.”

“No, not always,” Claude replied with a wan grin.

“But even I must admit that you have done a great deal to embolden the spirit of our class. While I cannot promise you my vote,” he added, the golden prize of Leceister’s sovereign seat still paramount in his own ambitions, “our time together has proven to me that you will play an important part in the future of our motherland, as you grow into your duties, and I into my own.”

Claude’s grin turned into an earnest smile. “Thank you, Lorenz.” 

“Likewise,” Lorenz continued, swallowing down his quickening pulse, “that duty demands that we, as the scions of ancient and noble houses, take upon those tasks most dire—in fact, even most unusual—as so much as they safeguard the dignity and...and the,” he prattled on, losing his nerve.

“Lorenz,” Claude tested.

“No,” Lorenz tutted with the shake of his head, “no, I do believe I have given the matter an appropriate amount of forethought, and it seems as though there is only one reasonable path ahead. It will not be to anyone’s benefit for the Duke of Riegan to find himself malnourished.”

“ _Lorenz_.”

“And although I cannot make any promises about future quarrels, I can at least give you my word not to lead our houses to war.” 

“Absolutely not,” Claude predicted with a snarl. It made Lorenz feel a little green around the edges, but he endeavored on. 

“Claude,” he insisted, this time entreatingly, waving a hand for emphasis, “eventually Garreg Mach will have no more chickens for you to steal. This plan of yours is shortsighted. Honestly, I expect better of you.” Claude scowled ever darker. “Besides, I do imagine that I, as a man of good size and fine breeding, have far more to offer than a...”

Lorenz’s throat tightened as he came to better understand what he’d already half offered. His eyes darted to the sad, limp bird tumbled in the leaves. Just how much blood was in a chicken?

“We’re not discussing this here,” Claude snapped. Lorenz had no option but to follow him after he’d snatched him suddenly by the wrist. As all archers, his grip was terribly strong. Lorenz sucked the heat from the fire in their last moment in the clearing, and almost— almost, for he was still a man of endurance— found himself winded as Claude tore him quickly across the monastery once more.

Soon they were upon Claude’s dormitory door. Claude ushered Lorenz unceremoniously inside. It took no small amount of Lorenz’s nimble-footedness to avoid stumbling over the books and other flotsam strewn across the floor.

“You’ve thought about it, haven’t you?” Claude challenged. His back was turned to Lorenz, hands busy with unfastening his gloomy cloak. “You understand how absurd this all is? Your proposal?”

“On the contrary,” Lorenz answered. He did a rather impressive job of sounding confident, despite the knot that had formed in his throat. “I am more convinced than ever that it is a rather foolproof plan.”

“Lorenz,” Claude sighed. He turned. His room was better lit than the forest. His skin, usually aglow with healthful color, looked sallow in the candlelight. Had Lorenz truly been so distracted by his ridiculous ruse that he’d not noticed Claude falling so sickly? A guilty pinch vied with his nerves to strangle him.

“I fear you have the wrong impression about me.” Lorenz knew that it was by his own doing, of course, but Claude’s state made it difficult to be dishonest. If he had the courage to be vulnerable then, goddess help him, so could Lorenz. “Despite our differences, I am concerned about your wellbeing, Claude.”

Claude’s wrinkled brow smoothed flat. He sat against the edge of his unmade bed, seemingly defeated. Suddenly Lorenz was acutely aware of his own position in the room. He straightened his back, and fiddled with the set of his heels, and wrestled with the best way to hold his hands. 

“I’m not agreeing with you,” Claude said. “But, purely as a hypothetical—”

“As an idea.” 

“—as a _hypothetical_ , there would need to be clear terms set and agreed upon.”

“Most certainly.” Lorenz drew Claude’s chair from his desk and placed it beside the bed before brushing back the tails of his jacket and primly taking a seat. Negotiations. Yes. This was the best way forward. Far better for him to focus on what he was good at, rather than allow himself to continue to struggle with a potential future in which Claude found his lips against Lorenz’s skin. His teeth, that was to say. “Perhaps there is a precedent upon which we can draw?”

Claude nodded. “Yes. Let’s not bother with the terminology, but the idea is that it’s an equal give and take. There should be a schedule, set and confirmed by both parties, and a safe location. Consistency is essential, along with complete discretion. I... there is an element of sedation to the process. We wouldn’t want to be caught unaware. Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

“Of course.”

“You,” Claude added, frowning slightly as the hypothetical seemed to become more grounded in reality with every new word, “would have control, but it wouldn’t be absolute. I’ll need some time to prepare for alternatives if you become uncomfortable with the agreement.”

“I see.”

“In return, I would make a guarantee not to hurt you—”

“I have seen my fair share of scrapes and bruises, Claude,” Lorenz puffed.

“—or kill you.”

Lorenz mouth grew dry. “Hm,” he said. Claude’s green eyes skewered him in place.

“I would hope that you would promise to do the same with me.”

“At the present moment, yes.”

Claude grinned. Lorenz’s gloves were beginning to feel quite hot. “That’s the sum of it,” Claude continued. “In the end, it’s all about secrecy, really. We both have a vested interest in keeping this quiet.”

“Quite.” Lorenz clapped his palms. “Good. So. I believe we are in agreement?” He stood and stopped himself from pacing away his nerves, instead filtering the energy into fumbling with his collar buttons.

“Wait,” Claude stuttered, “that was just—”

“I have heard your terms and find them satisfactory. I trust that you are a man of honor, your poor sense of humor aside, and so I will assume that you will remain open to further questions as they arise, and adjustments, if they are deemed to be agreeable to both parties.”

“Lorenz, this isn’t some debate about land deeds. Be reasonable.”

“I am being reasonable,” Lorenz huffed, wounded. “Far more than you are, it appears. This agreement between us is simply a transaction. I have already bled for Leicester on the field. So too am I willing to do the same for my countrymen. Man.” He corrected awkwardly. “And if you have made a guarantee of a painless exchange, why, even better. So. Let us not dawdle. I do not see the need for a written contract. We are men of our word, after all. Do you just... is it on the neck here, then?”

“No,” Claude snapped, standing. For some reason he was suddenly speaking behind the splay of his left hand. “Not there. For fucks’ sake, Lorenz. Thank the gods you haven’t stepped foot outside the Locket.”

“ _Language_ ,” Lorenz gasped. He was becoming accustomed to the general situation they found themselves within, but that didn’t mean that they should behave like barbarians.

“Sit down,” Claude ordered, turning to brush clean a spot for him on his bed.

“I would prefer the chair,” Lorenz sniffed. Claude caught him by the arm before he had the chance to sit.

“You’ll hurt yourself. Trust me. Lay across the bed.”

“This is most unusual.”

“Obviously,” Claude laughed. “Here, first, take off your jacket.”

Lorenz cleared his throat. The evening was quickly turning into the opening paragraph of the lewd novels Seteth was so committed to purging from the monastery library. “Is that really necessary?”

“Yes.”

“Very well,” he huffed, working at the buttons. Claude waited in silence as Lorenz slowly stripped the jacket from his shoulders and folded it neatly along the back of the chair. “Is that satisfactory?”

Claude shrugged, voice still muted slightly by his fingers. “It does the job. Now, sit here and lay back.” He patted the mess of twisted sheets. Lorenz allowed himself to be aghast at the idea of placing his back against Claude’s pillow. It was better than fixating on what would come next. “Roll up your left sleeve.”

“You mean to take it from my arm, then? Is there no other option? I need both in good condition for my lance, you know.”

“It heals,” Claude answered. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt you, didn’t I?”

“I suppose.” If Lorenz was lucky, perhaps Claude would mistaken the color of his cheeks for a shadow cast by the flickering candlelight. All the same Claude sat beside him, close enough that the mattress dipped under his weight and tilted Lorenz a little nearer. He wasn’t so frightening, really. Lorenz could at least admit to that. Other than whatever he was hiding, he still simply looked like Claude. “What is it that you are doing there with your hand?”

Claude’s brow tightened with a frown. He lingered for a moment longer before slowly pulling away the shield of his hand. “It’s a reflex,” he muttered. “I’ve got no control over it.”

“My,” Lorenz gasped once he’d caught sight of what Claude had been hiding. “But they’re rather large, aren’t they?”

Claude frowned. Even with his mouth closed, the sharp, white points of his fangish canines breached his lips. “Not really. Not _comparatively_.”

“Fascinating.” Lorenz raised up onto his elbows for a closer look. Claude bowed away, but was apparently dedicated enough to their agreement not to raise from the bed entirely. “What is it? Some breed of magic that keeps them hidden?”

Claude eyed him warily. Despite the tension of the moment, Lorenz could still recognize the sparkle of academic intrigue in him. It was one of Claude’s better features—if only he’d ever abandon his petty schemes enough to showcase it properly.

“My skull is different than yours,” Claude explained. “There’s a pair of bones set here, just below my septum, that hinge,” he added, planting the butts of his palms together to mimic the movement for Lorenz, “along with an extra muscle running along the roof of my mouth which contracts to pull the teeth forward.”

“Incredible. May I inspect them?”

“What?”

“No,” Lorenz quickly answered, snatching back his hand, which had crept forward of its own accord into the air. “Of course not. I apologize.” He closed his fingers into his palm. “I have overstepped.”

Claude frowned. “It’s fine. You have the right. I’ll be putting them in you, after all.”

“Gracious,” Lorenz sputtered, blanching. “We must settle on better terminology than that.”

Claude snorted and leaned closer. Lorenz interpreted the move as an approval. Of what, however, he wasn’t quite certain. As a boy, he’d had the finest governesses on offer in Leicester. He was not unfamiliar with the art of dissection. Any man interested in the study of magic needed to have a proper foundation in anatomy. His time at the Royal Academy of Sorcery had even granted him access to a human cadaver. But Claude was no frog, and he most certainly wasn’t dead.

“Wait,” Claude snapped just as Lorenz had summoned the courage to reach for him again. “Don’t touch them.”

“Of course.” Lorenz cheeks ached from his pitiful fluster. Goddess, what was he doing? If he could not handle this simple arrangement with dignity, what good was he in any tête-à-tête? 

“There’s a toxin, although that isn’t the right word,” Claude struggled to explain, “just that there isn’t a better one in Fodlani, for obvious reasons.” He smeared his pointer finger along his gum line to prove the point, brandishing it at Lorenz afterwards to show off the glisten slicked against his skin. Lorenz focused on the scientific interest of the moment, instead of the way the gesture had made something tighten in his chest. “It’s palliative, but it can irritate your skin if you aren’t careful. Used properly, it numbs and accelerates healing.”

“Amazing.”

“Don’t go singing it’s praises,” Claude added dryly. “I’d prefer it if Manuela didn’t try to crack my head open in search of new and improved vulneraries.”

“Ah. Yes.” Lorenz eyed the long, hooked shape of Claude’s sharp teeth. “Are you certain that you have enough of it for...practical application?”

Claude smirked. “I’m certain.”

“Good.” Lorenz smoothed the irreparably wrinkled blankets of Claude’s bed before slowly lowering himself against the pillow again. He rolled up his left sleeve to the elbow with three curt turns of his wrist. “I suppose we might as well get it over with, then.”

Claude nodded. He reached for his bare arm. By instinct, Lorenz jerked it away.

“I apologize,” he stammered.

“Lorenz, if you aren’t comfortable with this...”

“I am comfortable. Too comfortable, in fact, thanks to this rather homely preparation of your bed. Please. Continue.” Lorenz gritted his teeth and waved his arm at him for the full effect. Claude took hold of it gingerly, brow still raised in a more believable interpretation of Lorenz’s own trepidation.

“Are you certain?”

“Are you proposing that I am not a man of my word?”

Claude sighed. If Lorenz hadn’t been at such a strangle angle, he may have thought that Claude even did something as uncouth as roll his eyes. “Fine.” He successfully took Lorenz by the arm and drew two calloused fingers along the vein running perpendicular to the socket of his elbow. Lorenz shivered.

“I’ll do it here. Like I said, it won’t hurt, but you’ll feel a pressure, like this.” He pushed against his fingertips until Lorenz could feel the pulse of his own heartbeat. It was too quick-beating to be so openly monitored by another man. Another failure of the evening, as far as Lorenz was concerned. His stomach sunk miserably.

“And it will be warm,” Claude continued. “The feeling will start in your arm, but it will spread. It will be...pleasant.”

“How lovely,” Lorenz replied through clenched teeth.

“You’ll likely feel lightheaded— that your limbs are too heavy to move. Don’t bother testing it. You’ll just fall from the bed.”

“I would do no such thing,” Lorenz huffed. Honestly. Had he never seen him a-saddle? As if he would lose his balance over something as simple as a bit of spilt blood.

“Don’t try it. It’s important, Lorenz.”

“Very well.”

Claude eyed him for a moment, daring him to protest. “I’ll make certain that the bleeding stops. Afterwards, you’ll be fatigued. It’s natural.”

“Sedation,” Lorenz remembered from what Claude had said before. Claude nodded.

“It’s best if you sleep it off.”

“Not here,” Lorenz replied, aghast. Claude snorted and shook his head.

“Rest wherever you like. Just don’t try to run anywhere to do it.”

“Is that it?”

Claude shrugged. “It covers the basics, at least.” He studied Lorenz with a steady stare. “Are you ready, then?”

“Fully prepared. If you would—”

Claude leaned forward into Lorenz’s outstretched arm. As he’d warned, Lorenz felt the sudden press of his teeth, followed after by the eerie feeling of his skin giving way beneath their points. There was no pain. It wasn’t pleasure, either. Lorenz’s breath caught in his throat, choked by what it truly was: euphoria. Sunlight. Warm, golden. A crackling fireside after a long winter ride. All of Lorenz’s worries suddenly seemed so petty. In fact, they disappeared. So too did Claude’s messy room. The monastery was merely a memory made fond by time. Lorenz was floating somewhere else— a place so grand that it required no color, no shape, no sound. He was in love with everything: every scrap of every creature in the world.

He floated blissfully for whatever it was that time was, and for however long it could be, until a strange, warm rumble filled his ears. _Moan_ , that thing called his brain supplied for him, although he wasn’t certain if it was an answer or a command. A new feeling erupted in his chest as hot as fresh-struck lightning: desire. He felt it in his mouth, like a hunger; in his hands, desperate to touch and soothe and feel— Goddess, to _feel_ something, the warmth of skin, the slick of a mouth; calloused, nimble fingers caressing, taking, giving; all of it so alien to him and yet, in that moment, all-encompassing. It was ecstasy. It was divine.

It was...

An old water stain stamped in the ceiling above Claude’s unmade bed.

“Lorenz? Are you alright?”

“...what?” He found it nearly impossible to string the letters together. Oh, but he was so tired. What even _was_ a letter? Every inch of his body felt as though it had been made anew, just like the thick, dyed wool that his father’s people made, endlessly battered and kneaded until it took color and shape. And my, didn’t Claude look so lovely. How green were his eyes, like springtime. A garden.

“A garden?”

A splash of cold dread finally stirred Lorenz awake. What in all of the heavens and each of the hells had he just said aloud?

“I’ll let you get some rest,” Claude promised, finishing the proposal with his own toothy yawn. “I’ll be here, if you need anything.”

Lorenz glanced over at the rug on which Claude had already settled himself. He looked different from before. His color was better. The strain of all of his frowns and furrowed brows had been replaced with a contented smile. Lorenz would have commented on it, or perhaps chided him for apparently preparing to sleep on the floor, if he’d not had the immense misfortune of glancing down to take stock of his own body as well.

“Oh,” Claude started, observant as always, “that’s natural.” He took the edge of the blanket with a sluggish grip and tossed it over Lorenz’s midsection to restore what little decency remained between them. “I won’t take it personally.”

Lorenz felt the color drain from his face— not that he seemed to have any blood left above his belt to drain. If he could have moved he would have run, but as it was he was helpless to do anything other than will himself into horrified obscurity. He could only hope that Claude was as drunk as he sounded. Perhaps he’d forget the whole ordeal. Was that how this sort of thing worked?

“Thank you, Lorenz,” Claude mumbled from the floor.

“Yes, well,” Lorenz managed, slurring from the exhaustion pressed like an anvil against his chest. “No matter.”

Which was absurd, of course. It was quite the matter. As Lorenz drifted finally to sleep he could think of nothing else. A dreadful, stupendous, extraordinary matter. What a matter, indeed.


End file.
